The Fathers (and their sons)

A poem for the first snow

There was a soft yellow light in the east and a deep gray black in the west

Pellets looked like styrofoam accumulated on the corners of stairs

The north wind of winter steady and pushing in the challenges of living in the Midwest when you prefer the heat

The big flakes flew sideways at first, north to south. Racing each other south.

The accumulation grew. The flakes stacked and slowed and came directly down, telling that the storm was here to stay

Even so, the fathers and their sons emerged to converge with the virgin tufts of bleach white

The fathers in shin high boots and sensible layers and the sons bundled from head to toe getting their warmth from the love of white tacky snow balls

The broad flakes slowed and slowed and the fathers talked about a football game while their sons rolled and licked the icy white for brain freezes and bright eyes

The brown ground was covered with bright white light, yesterday was forgotten.